Tame Me
by Passionworks
Summary: Ozula Week Prompt One.  The years of torture have taken their toll.  What more of her is left?  Rated for suggestive content.


**Author's Note: This is prompt one for Ozula Week. The greatest author herself, TrueThinker's hosting it! Please visit her profile for more information! We'd both like to see some active participants revel in what is often considered the most misunderstood pairing in the Avatar business.**

**Music Credits (in order as they appear): **

**'I Want Your World To Turn' is by Heart, from the 1990 album, **_**Brigade.**_

**'I Won't Last a Day Without You' is by The Carpenters, from the 1972 album, **_**A Song For You.**_

**'Eternal Flame' is by The Bangles, from the 1988 album, **_**Everything.**_

Prompt One: Domestic

_You have the right to remain violent…_

Tame Me

By: Passionworks

…

"_I felt your heart,_

_Like a magnet._

_Your eyes were touching me,_

_Touching me,_

_Touching me…"_

Those mad eyes are yellow like sunlight, but when the highlights of the moon hit them just right, they fade to almost white, sort of like what lightning looks like when it slithers past the clouds and impacts earth.

Or when it slips from his fingers and embeds itself into her unsuspecting heart.

When those golden eyes stare into her deeper orbs, they ignite a blaze, one of color without beauty, one of rage without pretense. He is taller than she is, obviously; he has an advantage over her when they compete for dominance. He looks down on her in a spiteful way, like a competitor without competition to speak of. She is so sadly forced to look up to him, exactly like a child does to a parent.

Which is just what she is to him.

But she is not so naïve as a child. She is seventeen, ripe and beautiful and possibly full of life. But life of any kind is ruined by his eyes. Like a stare that could turn flesh to stone, his turns her vitality to mush.

So, when she pressures his supremacy, or when she tugs at his authority, she always ends up on her last legs. Her knees end up quivering.

It takes just a single distrustful look his way. That's it.

You want to know a secret? She wishes she could go blind. That way, his sly glances would just bounce right off of her –and it would not hurt.

Would not hurt at all.

…

"_Touch me and I end up singing._

_Trouble seems to up and disappear._

_You touch me with the love you're bringing._

_I can't really lose when you're near,_

_When you're near, my love."_

His grip on her is twisted, convoluted like a vine that compresses and squeezes. Think of him as a forest. A forest grows upon what it kills. Eats upon what it once brought into this world. The heart of the wood is a winding puzzle of roots that wrap around everything in the way of the tree.

Just think, just one more pinch.

And it could all end. Like a fraying thread cut loose, she could lose this fight.

But, no. He wants her alive. It is her distressing scream that propels him to keep her breathing. But when calmed and subdued, that voice tenderly tickles his ear with seductive allusions. It sometimes troubles him, though, especially when it becomes testy. When she is cross, her full, pink lip puckers –and she says not a word. He hates her silence.

But she revels in it, because sometimes she wants him to rip her lungs out. If she can't breathe, she can't speak.

Then, he loses.

And she wins.

Too bad that's not going to happen any time soon.

…

"_Close your eyes._

_Give me your hand._

_Do you feel my heart beating?_

_Do you understand?_

_Do you feel the same?_

_Am I only dreaming,_

_Or is this burning_

_An eternal flame?"_

When the heart hurts, it throbs like a wound. Bleeds like one too. The soul is a tender muscle, thought to be fortified from any physical force, but even things kept secure can somehow come into the open.

And be forced to surrender.

Come now. Take a look at her heart. What do you see? Why, there is damage to the tissue that surrounds it. These are depressive wounds, caused by an aching from his malicious tones. His words slice through her like a toothed knife through meat. The flesh splits and tears and shreds. The gristle is chewed through, spat out, and discarded.

But look on the inside, where the line between her heart and conscience lies. That line is thin and worn, ready to sever at any time. That line is her inner fire. See how the flame is waning like one defeated by a rainy day? Her fire is no longer blue, for there is no rage whatsoever.

She can conjure nothing more than a simple flicker.

With his thumb and forefinger, he has pinched the match –tamed the flame. Replaced it with his own. His has always been better anyway. It has always been more destructive. See, when this flame touches down, the one trapped beneath it just sizzles.

And her damaged heart sizzles and burns and blisters and bruises.

What more of her is left?


End file.
